A Narnian Christmas Carol
by WillowDryad
Summary: Susan has convinced herself that Narnia and Aslan were only make believe. But can the visits of the spirits from her past get her to see the truth she has denied?
1. The Professor's Ghost

**Disclaimer: Susan Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. I believe Dickens' A Christmas Carol is public domain now, but if not, that's not mine either. I'm just stealing freely from it. Any really strange punctuation you notice is likely copied from the original.  
**

A NARNIAN CHRISTMAS CAROL

STAVE ONE: THE PROFESSOR'S GHOST

The Professor was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The train had taken the bend coming into the station far too fast, and the Professor had been killed. Along with Aunt Polly, Cousin Eustace and his friend Jill, Mum and Dad, and Lucy and Peter and Edmund, the Professor had been killed when it crashed. Afterward, they were all identified, neatly labeled and taken away to be buried.

Susan knew he was dead? Of course she did. How could it be otherwise? She had seen him in his coffin, one of the nine. Stiff and white. Cold. Like an odd waxwork of himself made by someone who had never seen him when he was alive. Yes, there was no doubt that the Professor was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

But Susan, young and lovely Susan, queenly and gentle Susan, had before that fatal day already begun to change. She had convinced herself that being grownup meant forgetting the truth, that it meant leaving behind all she had known and been and learned in favor of lipstick and invitations. She had convinced herself that Peter was being childish, no, more than that, foolish and even harmful, in believing still in a silly game and encouraging Lucy and Edmund at it. She told herself Edmund was deluded, perhaps even blasphemous, when he claimed to have found their make-believe Lion just round the corner in their parish church. And she was certain that Lucy, sweet, courageous and so-sheltered Lucy, would have her marriage prospects ruined if she didn't start acting her age.

Oh! But Susan herself was not one to be sheltered or pushed to the side. That season, the season following the tragedy, no party was a party if the divine Miss Pevensie was not present. Her clothes were the dernier cri, the latest fashion, and she wore them with style and grace. Her friends were society's best, the crème de la crème, and she walked among them in perfect ease, filling nights and days with a whirl of people and places and events so that what sleep she got was dark and dreamless and the past, for the most part, left her to herself.

Now there were some who remembered Susan, neighbors who had known her family and had watched her grow up, boys, now men, who had once looked longingly upon her from the back row of a classroom, girls from that same classroom, now women, who had once flocked to her kindness and vivacity, but they hardly knew her any longer. Not that she was unkind or snobbish, not that she would have refused to speak had she met any one of them in the street, but these days she had no time for such people and the memories that clung to them.

Once upon a time– of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve seven years after that fateful train crash, Susan was coming home from a party. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal. She huddled in her fur coat, feeling strangely as if she should remember another time in another coat and another winter, waiting for her date to open the front door.

"Do hurry, Granger. It's beastly cold out."

"Give a chap a chance, eh? There it is."

The key clicked coldly in the lock and the door swung open. Susan hurried into the warmth of the foyer, and Granger bustled in behind her. She turned at once and held her hand out for her key.

"Thank you, and good night."

"Aww, but I thought maybe when you said you were tired you just meant you were tired of everyone else." He cupped her face in both hands, bringing his lips close to hers. "I thought perhaps tonight . . . "

He looked at her expectantly, and she shrugged away from him.

"When I said I was tired, Granger, that's exactly what I meant."

"But, Susie, it's Christmas Eve. Surely, in the sprit of the season–"

"Christmas." Her lovely mouth was marred with a sneer. "Christmas is for children and for those who refuse to grow up. I know– _have known _too many people like that, and it never got them anywhere."

"But, Susie, you can't mean that."

"I've asked you before, Granger, to please not call me Susie. Now thank you for bringing me home. If you hurry, you can get back before the party breaks up."

"Good idea," he said, and there was a flash of anger in his dark eyes. "I imagine Olivia Brownlee won't have left yet. She's certainly not one to turn a fellow out into the cold."

"You'll be a perfect match." Susan turned him towards the door. "Have fun."

She practically shoved him outside and then locked the door behind him and slipped the key into the pocket of her fur coat. Oh, she was tired. And, oh, she was cold, the dull, dreary sort of cold that made her shrink into herself. Not the rushing exciting cold that used to make her dance when she walked, the sparkling cold that reminded her of reindeer and sleigh bells. It seemed she was always cold. Always winter and never Christmas.

She shook her head and huddled down into her furs. That was a strange thought to have. It _was_ Christmas. And before too long, it wouldn't be winter. Still, she was cold, and she hurried to the fireplace, meaning to put more wood on, but she stopped short, her hand reaching towards the poker. She saw in the lion-headed andiron, the left one, mind you, without its undergoing any immediate process of change: not an andiron, but the Professor's face.

The Professor's face. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Susan as the Professor used to look, white-haired and shaggy bearded, bespectacled and bemused. As Susan looked on this phenomenon, it was an andiron again. To say that she was not startled would be untrue, but she picked up the poker she had been reaching for, stirred the fire with it and then turned towards the room. And there, with his usual mild smile, just to the right of her Louis XVI chair, stood the Professor himself.

The same face: the very same. He stood there in his burgundy smoking jacket with his pipe in his hand, and she could see the smoke curling out of it. His body was transparent: so that Susan, observing him, could see the back of his velvet collar and the box pleat in his jacket. Despite this, she was still incredulous, and fought against her senses.

"Professor," said Susan, cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"

"A great deal," said the Professor, mild as ever. "May I sit down?"

She shrugged. "If you like."

He sat down on the Louis XVI chair as if he were quite used to it and puffed for a moment on his pipe.

"You don't believe in me," he observed.

"I don't," said Susan. "I used to believe in fantasies, but I don't anymore. You're no more real than Centaurs and Gryphons and talking Lions."

"True," he observed. "Very true. And no less, my dear. No less."

She crossed her arms and tapped her slim foot. "Well? What is it you want with me?"

"If you don't believe in me, my dear, why do you ask?"

"Obviously, my subconscious has conjured you up because, A, I'm tired; B, I've been dwelling on the past far too much lately; and, C, I probably had a little too much champagne at the party. So I can only think you're here to help me work things out logically so I can get back to my real life."

The Professor raised his bushy eyebrows. "Your subconscious, eh? And how do you know that?"

"It's only logical." She sniffed. "I studied all about it when I was at university."

Shaking his head, the Professor took off his spectacles and began to polish them. "What do they teach in schools these days?" He looked up at her again. "Very well, then tell me about this 'real life' of yours. Are you happy?"

"Of course I am," she said hotly. "I have everything I could ask for."

"And do those _things_, Susan, make you happy? Truly?"

"Of course–"

"As happy as you were in Narnia?"

She caught a little gasping breath. "That was a game we played during the war. Just like this illusion right now, it was a coping mechanism, something we did so we wouldn't be too afraid being away from home. It was nothing else."

Again he raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

She pulled her coat more closely around her. Would this room never be warm?

"Really. My brothers and sister would never stop going on about it, but it's ridiculous to pretend it was all real. Kings and Queens of a magical land? Ridiculous."

"But then they did stop going on about it, eh?" His eyes were sympathetic and, as always, very kind. "And how have you liked it these seven years without them going on about it?"

"I tell you I have everything I want." Her blue eyes flashed. "I am happy."

"You are not yet as happy as you are meant to be," he said thoughtfully. "If you'd ever stop for a moment and really look about you, you'd see that."

"What is it you want with me?" she asked again, again with that impatient tapping of her foot, and the Professor sighed.

"I am sent to tell you that you will be visited by three spirits."

She turned rather paler than usual. "I– I think I'd rather not."

"Expect the first tomorrow when the bell tolls One," he said as if she had raised no objection. "Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate."

She lifted her chin, trying as best she could to look unafraid. "Couldn't I take all of them at once and have it over? I mean, since this is all a product of my imagination."

He stood up, shaking his head sadly. "Unless you learn to know the true from the false and to trust more than you see with your eyes, you will never see me again, my dear. But I pray you will remember . . . me and all that has passed before."

When he had said these words, the Professor walked backward from her, and at every step he took, he faded more and more from sight until he had utterly vanished. Susan only shook her head, pulling the coat closer around her. And being, from the emotion she had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or her glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Professor, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed without undressing or even removing her coat, and fell asleep upon the instant.

**Coming up: STAVE TWO: THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS**


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

**Disclaimer: Susan Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. I believe Dickens' A Christmas Carol is public domain now, but if not, that's not mine either. I'm just stealing freely from it. Any really strange punctuation you notice is likely copied from the original.**

STAVE TWO: THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS

When Susan awoke, it was so dark that, looking out of bed, she could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of her bedroom. She was endeavoring to pierce the darkness with her wide blue eyes when the chimes of the nearby parish church struck the four quarters. So she listened for the hour.

The heavy bell struck a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of her window were drawn aside. Susan, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found herself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.

It was a strange figure– like a child and yet not so like a child as like a Queen. How could one so young and small be a Queen? And yet she stood in royal velvets and jewels, with a silver circlet of leaves twined into her fair hair. And her eyes were blue and bright and full of nothing but joy.

"Are you the Spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Susan.

"I am!"

The voice was soft and sweet, and Susan was certain there was a touch of a familiar giggle in it, one she had not heard in a very long time.

"Who and what are you?" Susan demanded.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" inquired Susan, observant of its small stature.

"No. Your past."

Susan then made bold to inquire what business brought it there.

"Your welfare."

Susan expressed herself much obliged but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard her thinking, for it said immediately:

"Your reclamation then. Take heed!"

It put out its small hand as it spoke and clasped her gently by the arm.

"Rise! and walk with me!"

The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. She rose, but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped its robe in supplication.

"I am a mortal," Susan remonstrated, "and liable to fall."

"Bear but a touch of my hand!"

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall and stood in a dense, wide forest. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold winter day, with snow upon the ground.

"Impossible!" said Susan, clasping her hands together, as she looked about her. "I– I know this place. It's Nar–"

But though she refused to say the name, she knew it still. There was no place in her world that had skies so blue, trees so lush, snow so pure and dazzlingly deep, and the memory of snow angels and Beavers and a Faun in a red scarf rushed back into her like the sea.

"Your lip is trembling," said the Ghost. "And what is that upon your cheek?"

Susan scrubbed her face with the sleeve of her fur coat, a coat that seemed as much a part of this place, this very place, as the snow and the trees, and with an unusual catching in her voice, begged the Ghost to lead her where it would.

"You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit.

"Remember it!" cried Susan with fervor. "I could walk it blindfold."

"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!" observed the Ghost. "Let us go on."

They walked along, past the snug little cave where a Faun had once lived, past a Beaver's dam and past a tall, glittering castle made of ice and fear. They crossed a wide and frozen river that suddenly thawed when the valley that held it turned green and blossomed swiftly into spring. Oh the bright glory of that spring! If Susan had thought the blues and whites and silvers of that winter were beautiful to look on, now the riot of spring colors fair made her weep for joy.

And then they came to a dense, sacred place in a clearing where stood a table made of stone. It was cracked in two as if some great battle there had been fought and won, and a shaft of light shone through the trees and fell upon it, as if the darkness had broken along with the table. And with a sudden, searing clarity, Susan remembered a knife and a Witch and a Lion, brave and silent and shorn, giving Himself to die in a traitor's place.

Her own heart cracked like that table of stone when she remembered Him standing golden and wonderfully alive in the morning's sunshine, Death's Conqueror and Life's Champion, His roar shaking the forest. No, no, a game. It had been a game, a pretty story. She wiped her sleeve over her eyes once again and walked on.

Soon they were in the middle of a wide, green meadow, and she knew this had been the site of a great battle where the Lion had triumphed over the Witch, and her brothers had first become Knights and Warriors, and her sister had used the contents of a small diamond bottle to pull Edmund back from death. A story. A game. The classic tale of good's triumph over evil acted out by children far from home. It wasn't–

They walked on, on to a shining castle on a shining sea, and she could hear from some distant place the singing of Mermaids, high and clear and sweet, and the shouts of Talking Beasts and of Centaurs and Gryphons, of Fauns and Satyrs and Dryads and Naiads and more:

"Long live King Peter! Long live Queen Susan! Long live King Edmund! Long live Queen Lucy!"

And then she saw them, truly as they had once been. Peter, golden and strong, pure-eyed and steadfast, his hair as bright as his crown, the love for this new kingdom and these people shining wetly in his blue eyes. Edmund at his right hand, his silver crown gleaming against his black hair, his dark eyes filled with gratitude, with mercy for those in need of grace, with justice for the weak and the wronged. To their far left sat Lucy, in royal velvets and jewels, with a silver circlet of leaves twined into her fair hair. And her eyes were blue and bright and full of nothing but joy. With a sudden gasp, Susan turned to the Spirit, and she knew her. She knew her!

"Lucy! Lucy!"

And with that sweet little giggle Susan had once known so well, Lucy threw herself into her arms.

"Do you know me now, Susan? Have you remembered me at last?"

"But, Lucy, how? You were– I saw you– The train–"

She smiled. "That was only in the Shadowlands."

Susan put one hand to her trembling lips. Then they were all– "Peter! Edmund!"

The boys seated in splendor before her, so young and glowing with life, did not respond, and Lucy squeezed her hand.

"These are but shadows of things that have been. They have no consciousness of us."

And Susan looked from the Lucy beside her to the near-identical image of Lucy seated on the throne and then, hesitantly, turned her gaze to the throne at her right. Susan's own.

She blinked at the girl seated there. So young, so gentle, her hair black and lush against her porcelain skin, her lips softly pink, her eyes blue and clear and innocent. Could that have been herself? At twelve a Queen? And Susan sat down upon a marble step and wept to see her gentle, faithful self as she had used to be.

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully and waved its hand: saying as it did so, "Let us see another time!"

Susan's former self grew larger at the words, and the throne room became another battlefield. Her brothers, slightly older, stood with another boy, surrounded by Beasts and Creatures and men, victorious and strong. And Peter was handing over his sword, the beloved Rhindon, into that other boy's keeping under the smiling eyes of the Lion.

Every bit of joy left Susan's heart, and the Spirit beside her touched her hand.

"Why do you frown?"

Susan shrugged and turned her back on the Lion. "He sent us away. He said we were too old, Peter and I, and that we were banished from Narnia." Her eyes flashed and they were suddenly full of tears. "It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. We did everything he asked of us, Peter and I did, and he punished us for something we couldn't help. For growing up."

"Edmund and I grew up, too, and were sent away," the Spirit said gently. "But it wasn't punishment. It was never punishment. Our time here was up. It was time for us to be mature and find our way in our own world. We learned to serve Him here so we could serve Him there, too. He gave us His gifts and taught us here to use them so we might use them there as well." The Spirit wiped the tears from Susan's cheek with gentle fingers. "That is what it means to grow up, Susan. To become what He created us to be."

Susan glanced back to see the Lion watching her with longing eyes, but she turned again to the Ghost, face hard.

"What now?"

Although they had but that moment left the battlefield behind them, they were now in the little house in Finchley, and Susan noticed that the Ghost beside her no longer seemed to be her younger sister at the age of eight. Now it was a young woman, tall and slender, still bright eyed and pink cheeked, the image of the Lucy who huddled, sobbing, in Peter's arms as he stood, white with anger, in their mother's neat kitchen.

"It's time she grew up, Peter," Susan's image said.

What was she? Twenty? Twenty-one? She looked older. Her soft skin was masked with makeup, her pink lips stained red.

"Even if you don't believe anymore, Susan, you needn't be cruel."

Edmund was pale, paler than usual, but as always, his voice was low and reasonable. He was always just.

Susan's image sneered. "Look at you two! You're nineteen, Edmund. Peter's twenty-two. Twenty-two! Isn't that a little old to be playing dress up and trespassing on private property?"

Peter touched his lips to Lucy's forehead, and then turned to Susan, and the look on his face was all High King, magnificent and royal and still somehow full of tenderness. "We would like you to come with us, Susan. We've all missed you. But we're going even if you won't come. It's what we've got to do."

With a derisive snort, Susan's former self flounced out of the little kitchen, beaded purse swinging, and Edmund looked towards his brother in desperation. Peter drew him into his embrace with Lucy, sheltering them both there in his arms.

"She can't have really forgotten, can she?" Lucy's image asked, raising tear-filled eyes to her brothers.

"Not forever," Peter said, his voice half-choked as he held the other two closer. "Surely not forever."

Susan reached out her hand to the three of them. Then she felt the Spirit's glance and stopped.

"What is the matter?" asked the Ghost.

"Nothing particular," said Susan.

"Something, I think," the Ghost insisted.

"No," said Susan. "I merely wish I had been able to speak to them one last time. That's all."

The images of Peter, Edmund and Lucy filed silently out the door as she gave utterance to the wish; and Susan and the Ghost stood side by side before nine graves, the earth fresh-turned on them. And a girl of twenty-one, her clothes as black as her hair, stood before them, dry eyed and stiff faced, lips again stained red.

The Spirit looked at her, not voicing the question in its eyes.

"I wanted to cry," Susan said, her voice thick with tears. "I couldn't. It was– They were all just gone. I was all of a sudden alone. He had left me there, punishing me because I couldn't believe anymore."

Again the Spirit took her hand, a gentle smile on its face. "You say He has punished you for not believing. And yet you believe in Him enough to think He is punishing you. It is rather a paradox, is it not?"

Susan frowned.

"My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!"

This was not addressed to Susan, or to any one whom she could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again, Susan saw herself. She was very slightly older now, no more than twenty-two. And she was not alone, but sat by the side of a young man near her own age, a boy with Edmund's dark hair and Peter's blue eyes, a boy who had their same light of clean truth and steadfast honor in his face. But now that face was dark with grief.

"But you can't," he said, his voice soft and pleading. "He's three times your age."

"Not three times."

"Very nearly," the boy muttered. "Su, you can't–"

"My family left me with nothing, Brett. Nothing. What am I supposed to do?"

"Marry me." He seized her hand and kissed it fervently. "I know I don't have much, but I love you. I'll always love you. I'll work hard, I'll take care of you, I promise I will."

He seized her other hand, meaning to kiss it, too, but he was halted by the large diamond on the third finger.

"I can't–" His eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I can't buy you anything like that. But, Su, does it really matter? More than love?"

"He loves me," Susan's image said, a certain coldness in her eyes that had not been in those earlier images, certainly not in the image of that girl, that Queen, who had sat at Cair Paravel in throne.

"He wants you," Brett said. "Like he wants his cars and his yachts and his mansions. Something to show to his friends. Something else he can best them at."

Susan watched as her image stood, tall and regal, taking her hands from his and stepping back.

"I'm going to marry him," she said coldly. "I'm sorry if that hurts you, but it's what I'm going to do. And I really think it best if you don't try to see me ever again."

He stood, too, something shattered in his expression and yet a certain strength as well. Again he took her hand and brought it to his lips, as if she had been a Queen indeed. "I wish you all the best, Susan. I love you always, but I will respect your wishes. Please be happy." He gave her a faint little smile. "Please."

"I will be," she said with a cool smile of her own. "To be sure."

With a nod, he left the room, and Susan shrieked after him. "Brett! Come back! Come back! Please come back!" She rushed to the younger image of herself and tried to seize her by the shoulders, but her hands caught nothing but air. "Call him back! Don't be a fool! Don't let him go!"

Her image sank on to the sofa, glancing at the diamond on her left hand and then at the door that had just closed with such finality. Then she buried her face in her arms and wept. Susan stood weeping with her and for her. For herself.

"Spirit," she said in a broken voice, "remove me from this place."

"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They are what they are, do not blame me!"

"Remove me!" Susan exclaimed. "I cannot bear it. Why was I left here when all I loved were taken? When I had nothing but grief to bear and no one but myself to love? What had I done that so deserved that judgement?"

The Spirit looked on her with the utmost tenderness. "Have you never thought, sister, that He left you behind for the sake of mercy and not judgement?"

Susan blinked. "Mercy?"

"We were ready, Peter and Edmund and I. We had found Him in our world. We had done what He had called us to. We were ready to go to His country. You were not. He gave you the gift of more time. Time to find Him, time to remember Him, time to know Him once more. Do not squander it!"

"He's not real!" Susan cried, covering her eyes and then her ears. "You're not real! You're not Lucy! She's dead! She's dead!" She turned upon the Ghost and wrestled with it. "Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!"

In the struggle, she grappled with the Ghost, crushing it against the thickness of her fur coat, and it gradually shrank, first looking seventeen as Lucy had when last Susan had seen her, then eleven, then nine, then eight, but the fur could not hide the light which streamed from the Spirit in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

She was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in her own bedroom. She gave the Ghost a parting squeeze, but it and its light had vanished; and she had barely time to reel to bed, before she sank into a heavy sleep.

**Coming up: STAVE THREE: THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS**


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

**Disclaimer: Susan Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. I believe Dickens' A Christmas Carol is public domain now, but if not, that's not mine either. I'm just stealing freely from it. Any really strange punctuation you notice is likely copied from the original.**

STAVE THREE: THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS

Sitting up in bed to get her thoughts together, Susan had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. When no shape appeared, she was taken with a violent fit of trembling, and she realized that she was in the very center of a blaze of ruddy light which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as she was powerless to make out what it meant. At last, she began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, and she got up softly and shuffled to the door.

The moment Susan's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called her by her name, and bade her enter. She obeyed.

It was her own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls were hung with peacock feathers and lit with great torches, and she realized the roof was of ivory and the floor of pale marble that glowed golden, but whether that glow was from the torchlight or from another source, she was not certain. There was a great door that, she could never tell how, seemed to look out to the sea, and again there was the high, sweet singing of Mermaids somewhere in the distance. There in the middle of the room, where she had expected to see her long dining table, there were four marble thrones, exquisitely carved, empty but for the second from the left.

In easy state upon this throne there sat a magnificent young man, tall and handsome, glorious to see; who bore a sword with a Lion's head on its pommel and held it up, high up, as Susan came peeping round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and know me better!"

Susan entered timidly, and hung her head before this Spirit; and though the Spirit's blue eyes were clear and kind, she did not like to meet them.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"

Susan did so. It was clothed in gleaming chain mail, and its rich red tunic bore the emblem of a rampant golden Lion. But in place of a warrior's helmet, it wore a King's crown, a heavy golden crown that was almost lost in the gold of its hair. And she saw that, despite its kingly majesty, there was openness and simplicity in its comely face. It looked on her serenely.

"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit.

"Never," Susan made answer to it, though she thought as she said it that perhaps she had.

And, looking at her as if it had somehow read that thought, the Ghost of Christmas Present rose and sheathed its sword.

"Spirit," said Susan submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

"Touch my tunic."

Susan did as she was told, and held it fast.

Peacock feathers, torches, roof, floor, door, sea and thrones vanished instantly. So did the room, the golden glow, and the hour of the night. It was now Christmas morning, and they stood in the street before a small house in a neighborhood much like the one in which Susan had grown up. The house could easily have been in Finchley, in her neighborhood, in her street.

"Whose house is this, Spirit?" Susan asked, for though its kind was familiar to her, she could not guess why she had been brought to this one in particular.

The Ghost nodded its golden head. "Come and see."

And, with Susan still holding to its red velvet tunic, it walked through the closed door and, by some miracle, brought Susan with it. The front room of the house was plainly decorated. The furnishings were faintly shabby but respectable enough. The young woman sitting on the sofa next to a Christmas tree was not beautiful. She had a sweet face, to be sure, but it held little of the artistic perfection of Susan's own.

The woman was still in her nightgown, robe and slippers, and held a baby in her lap, cooing at it as it played with the rings on the third finger of her left hand. They weren't much, just a plain gold band and then another set with a mere chip of a diamond, and both as mundane and middle class as the house and the woman herself.

"Who is she?" Susan asked the Ghost, and it gave her a sympathetic smile.

"Watch and see."

"Alice?" someone called from another room.

The woman looked up, a fresh glow in her eyes and on her face that made her suddenly beautiful. "We're in here, darling."

Someone, also in robe and slippers, hurried into the room, a young man with Edmund's dark hair and Peter's blue eyes, a man who had their same light of clean truth and steadfast honor in his face. And now that face shone with happiness.

"Merry Christmas, darling." He knelt before the woman, kissing her lips and then the baby's dark curls. "Merry Christmas, love."

"Brett," Susan whispered, reaching out and then dropping her hand as she remembered he could neither see nor hear her. "Brett."

"You know him?" the Spirit asked, its eyes, as always, clear and kind, and Susan looked away.

"I thought I did." She looked longingly at the happy couple. "I thought he loved me. Always."

"He does," said the Ghost. "Always. But he deserves someone who would accept his love and love him as deeply."

"I did," Susan cried, tears springing to her eyes. "I loved him."

"Not enough. Not enough to let go of your fears and give him that love. Did you love him so little that, though you refused him, you wished him to sacrifice himself at your altar and never marry?"

Again she looked at the couple, and with a faint sob, she shook her head. "He is–" She looked desperately into the eyes of the Ghost. "He _is_ happy, isn't he?"

"See," said the Spirit.

The man and the woman were laughing over the baby now, their heads close together, and then he took a small package from the pocket of his robe and gave it to her.

"Merry Christmas, darling," he told her once more

Eyes alight, she began tearing at the wrapping. When the baby started crowing and trying to help, they both laughed again. Then the woman opened the box and was suddenly silent.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh."

He shrugged a little. "I'm afraid it's not much."

She threw her arms around his neck, the baby between them. "It's lovely. How ever did you know? It's perfect. Put it on me."

He picked up the necklace, for that is what it was, and put it on her. Susan saw that it was just an inexpensive thing, probably only gold plated, and the rubies set into it were small and not of the best quality. But the woman looked at it with a gleam of tears in her eyes and then threw her arms around her husband's neck once more, clasping him close.

And Susan knew she would never had loved him as this other woman so obviously did.

"It might have been me," she said softly, and the Ghost looked at her, again with sympathy.

"Would that have contented you?"

And Susan remembered the happiness of her own home in Finchley, with Mum and Dad and with her and her brothers and sister, having little and thinking it more than enough. And, with a pang, she remembered her days at Cair Paravel, where, though they had been Kings and Queens, they had lived as simple servants to the Kingdom that had been entrusted to them and to the One who had given it.

But even then she had loved the clothes and the jewels and the castle's marble halls. She had loved the parties and the admirers who had flocked to her. And she had known just how to conduct herself with those admirers. She had known just the right tilt of the head and tuck of the chin, just the right bat of the eyes and wistful tone in the voice to get her way. Those skills had served her well when she had returned to her own world. They had brought to her everything that was fine and rare and chic. And expensive. Very expensive.

"No." She lowered her head, again avoiding the Spirit's gaze. "No, I fear it would not have contented me. Not as I was." For a final time, she looked on the couple before her and then she turned pleading eyes to her ghostly companion. "I beg you, take me from this place."

In an instant, the little house vanished, and Susan found herself in the ballroom of a stylish London home in the wee hours of Christmas morning. It was filled with people, the best society had to offer, and she realized this was the same party she had attended with Granger. The same one from which she had excused herself and gone home.

She saw Granger there now, laughing with three other men.

"Of course I was gone only a little while," he was saying. "I could tell by the way she was looking at me on the ride there that she couldn't resist the old Brantford charm long."

The men laughed, and Susan's face reddened in mortification.

"I suppose, once the old dog she married finally passed on, she was ready for some young blood. But you chaps know how it is." Granger elbowed the man next to him. "The game's not nearly as fun when there's no challenge to it. Now pay up."

Laughing and grumbling good-naturedly, the men began pulling money from their pockets and handing it over. Now Susan's mortification was joined by rage. These men dared bet on such a thing? And Granger, who had sworn his undying love time and again, dared coolly lie about what had and had not happened between them?

She looked around the room, at these people she thought she knew. What else were they saying behind her back? And was there no one to stand up for her?

She realized now that she was blinded by tears, and she felt strong, gentle hands on her shoulders. Instinctively, she turned and nestled her head against a sturdy chest. Sheltering arms closed around her.

At once she knew those hands, for they had time and again defended her honor and soothed her hurts. She knew the comfort of those arms.

"Peter," she sobbed. "Peter."

"Now do you know me?"

She squeezed him tightly and then looked up into his face. Golden magnificence. How could she have not seen from the very first moment?

"Those men would have answered to me for this," the Spirit said, its eyes cold for once and steely with resolve, "had I been in their company."

"Truly? Even now?"

The eyes softened with deep affection and she remembered so often seeing them so.

"Now and always, Susan. Why would you think otherwise?"

She dropped her eyes. "The things I said to you. To Edmund and Lucy–"

"You hurt us, Su. All of us. None of us understood why you didn't want to believe anymore. But that doesn't mean we stopped loving you."

"It hurt too much, Peter. It hurt too much to know it was all lost and we could never go back."

She felt the familiar touch of those hands stroking her hair.

"We went back. Edmund and Lucy and I. Back to Him anyway, to His country."

She nestled against that chest once more. "If only I could get back, too."

The arms tightened around her, and she realized she was no longer in the ballroom. She was in the old stone church near the old house in Finchley. The choir was singing a joyous Christmas hymn, and the Spirit stood, eyes now closed, as if it were soaking in that joy.

"You can get back," it said at last, blue eyes shining.

"He sent me away!"

"He sent you back," the Ghost said gently, "so that, knowing Him in Narnia, you might know Him better here."

And it looked up to the sun-flooded stained glass window above the altar. She followed its gaze to the familiar picture, a lion and a lamb with a cross between. Lion of Judah. Lamb of God.

From somewhere far off, a bell struck. The church had vanished, and she and the Sprit were in some dark, lonely place.

Susan shook her head. "I've done too much."

"He loves you, Su." The bell struck again, and the Ghost took her hands. "My time is up."

"Don't go," she begged. "Peter, please."

He touched a tender kiss to her forehead. "Go to Him."

She shrank back and again the bell struck. "I've hurt too many people."

"You are still His Queen."

The blue eyes pleaded with her as they had so often in life, and the bell struck thrice more. Time was fleeting.

"He wouldn't want me now," she sobbed.

Again and again the bell struck, and the Spirit was growing fainter now. But the eyes were still blue, still pleading.

"He still loves you. It is not yet too late."

She only shook her head, and still the bell tolled. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

The Ghost was almost gone, its voice faint and haunting. "Once a Queen, always a Queen."

The bell struck Twelve.

Susan looked about her for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, she remembered the prediction of the old Professor, and lifting up her eyes beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground towards her.

**Coming up: STAVE FOUR: THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS**


	4. The Last of the Spirits

**Disclaimer: Susan Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. I believe Dickens' A Christmas Carol is public domain now, but if not, that's not mine either. I'm just stealing freely from it. Any really strange punctuation you notice is likely copied from the original.**

STAVE FOUR: THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near her, Susan bent down upon her knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save the faint glimmer of silver from within the hood and one outstretched hand. It was a pale, slender hand, yet for all that, one that was strong and bore the calluses of a swordsman. And the wrist– The wrist was scarred, but the scars were old, as if this Spirit had once been bound but had long ago been freed.

She felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside her, certainly quieter and graver than the Spirit which had just left her, and that its mysterious presence filled her with a solemn dread. She knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" said Susan.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Susan pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The Spirit inclined its head, but that was the only answer she received. The hand was pointed straight before them.

"Ghost of the Future, I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be different from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Lead on!" said Susan. "Lead on, Spirit!"

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards her. Susan followed in its shadow, which bore her up, she thought, and carried her along.

Of a sudden she was in the sitting room in what appeared to be a wealthy country estate. Two young women were sitting on the sofa drinking their morning tea beside a twinkling Christmas tree.

"If she didn't have money, I'm sure Daddy would never allow her at our parties," the fair-haired one said, lips pursed. "She's a positive horror."

"They say she was a great beauty in her day," the darker one said, looking contemplatively into her teacup. "One can't help feeling rather sorry for her though. The way she dresses. I mean, she's seventy, or nearly. Not seventeen."

The blonde smirked. "No! My mother was at school with her. She couldn't be more than fifty or so."

"Fifty!" The brunette shook her head. "Not really."

The blonde gave her a knowing nod. "It's all the plastic surgery and the tanning booths. She ought to have stopped at least ten years ago. And the clothes. You saw what she had on last night. A micro-mini and leggings? And stiletto heels? At her age?"

The brunette shrugged. "I guess her husband likes it."

"Her husband," the blonde confided, "likes the easy life."

Susan turned to the Ghost. "Who do they mean, Spirit? What has this to do with me?"

The Ghost merely lifted its pale hand. She turned to look where it was pointing and found she was now in one of the rooms in a shabby hotel. A young couple lay nestled conspiratorially in the sheets. The man, and he was handsome in a seedy sort of way, kissed the woman deeply.

"And what else do you want for Christmas?"

She sighed and pulled away from him. "You know what I want. I want to be able to stop hiding and pretending. You don't love her. You don't even like her. You care nothing about her."

"She's my wife." He pulled the girl close again, nuzzling her neck. "She pays the bills."

"You get to live in a palace and we have to meet in dumps like this."

"It's all I can afford on the cash she gives me. She'll let me put anything I want on the card, but that leaves a trail and I know she checks up."

He held the girl tighter, tracing his lips along her bare shoulder, and she closed her eyes. Then, with a huff, she pushed away from him.

"That's all I am to you. A bit on the side."

"No, baby, you know that's not true."

"Then marry me. Leave her and marry me!"

"You know I can't. If I leave her, the money stops." He gave her a hard glance. "The fun stops."

She turned up her nose. "You'd have to get a proper job then, yeah?"

"Patience," he soothed, drawing her close again. "She can't live forever."

Susan looked away as the man pressed the woman back against the pillows. "Why do you show me this?" she asked the Ghost. "Who are they?"

Again the Spirit lifted its hand, and Susan found herself in a chic London townhouse, its already opulent decor made more so with a riot of Christmas trimmings. The young man from the hotel pushed open the front door and peeped round it, making sure his way was clear. With a relieved little grin, he shut the door behind him, took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit up.

"Justin! You know you're not to smoke in the house."

The man started and then put on a sheepish smile. "Sorry, dear."

He opened the door and flicked the cigarette out. Then he turned back.

"I thought, after we got home so late from the party last night, you'd still be in bed. Merry Christmas!"

Susan froze where she stood as the woman who had spoken appeared at the top of the sweeping stairs. She could only stare at the woman's face, stiff and mask-like, and the eyes sunken behind too-high cheekbones and under permanently surprised eyebrows and bright blue eyeshadow. Her hair, teased and frizzed and beginning to show black and gray roots, was platinum blonde and topped by a sequined bow. Her body looked unnaturally large at the top and unnaturally small at the bottom under the man's shirt she had obviously slept in, and her long legs were as darkly tanned as her face and her heavily ringed hands.

Who was she? Obviously the wife this man had betrayed.

"Why am I here?" Susan asked the silent Spirit again, but it only pointed towards the woman and the young man.

"Merry Christmas, darling," the woman purred, coming down into the foyer and putting her arms around his neck. "Are you having a happy day?"

"I am. Very happy." He slipped his arms around her and gave her a passionate kiss and then a suggestive little grin. "But it could be happier."

Susan felt faintly ill when the woman giggled like a teenager and nuzzled his ear. "Are you sure?" she whispered. "Are you sure your girlfriend won't mind?"

His grin vanished and then made a faint reappearance. "Wh-what do you mean?"

She shoved him away from her, and though her face apparently could not change expression, fury fairly crackled in her throaty voice.

"I mean, _darling_, that I've had you followed for the past month. I know about you and that tart you sleep with. And before you tell me she means nothing to you, let me assure you that I don't care. You are perfectly free to see whomever you please whenever you please. I've already filed for divorce, your credit cards have been cancelled and I've moved all the money from our joint account, so do what you like as usual. From now on, though, I will not be paying for it."

"Come on, babe," the man whined. "Be reasonable. You got what you paid for, didn't you?"

"I loved you," she cried, and tears leaked down her immobile face. "You were just in it for the money. Gigolo!"

"And just how did you get your money in the first place, Your Majesty?" He sneered. "You're no different than I am."

Susan backed away from them, clutching at the Sprit's black sleeve, at its pale hand. "Please, take me away from here."

"See."

Susan started at hearing the Spirit speak at last. Its voice was low and grave, and yet there was a pleading there and something more, a desperation perhaps. What must she see?

It turned her again to the man and the woman, this time keeping one pale hand on hers and slipping one black-clad arm around her shoulders.

"See what will be."

"But who are these people? Why must I see them?"

"See," the Specter repeated. "See what will be."

"Before I see more," said Susan, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be only?"

"Will be," murmured the Ghost, "if the course is not changed. What is sown must be reaped. It is only just."

"But mercy," she pled. "Can you show me nothing of mercy?"

"There is but one place to obtain that. I can tell you how it was given to me, a traitor, but I cannot get it for you. You must ask mercy yourself from the One who can give it."

"Tell me," she breathed, looking on the pale hand still in hers, the hand that she was certain had once been familiar. Justice? Mercy? A traitor?

"Tell me," she begged again. "Tell me of the knife and the Witch and the Stone Table and how the Lion died . . . for my brother."

She reached up and pushed back the black hood and found herself looking into eyes that were nearly as black, but they were filled with love and compassion and with glittering tears.

"Do you know me at last?"

"Edmund. Oh, Edmund." She crushed herself against him, almost dislodging his silver crown. "Why didn't you speak? All this while?"

"You needed to see. You still must see."

She clung to him, squeezing her eyes shut. "I don't like it here. Please take me away."

He looked grieved, but he shook his head. "You must see, Susan. You must see where the road ends."

He turned her again to the couple at the foot of the sweeping stairway. The woman stood there trembling with rage.

"What did you just say?"

The man made a low, mocking bow. "I said, Your Majesty, that you're no different than I am. If I'm a gigolo, then you're a wh–"

She cracked her palm across his face and stalked up the marble stairs. Swift and silent as a cat, he was behind her. Just as she reached the top, he grabbed hold of her shirttail and gave it a hard yank. She screamed and went tumbling backwards, landing in a silent heap on the foyer floor.

He almost fell himself, scrambling back down to her.

Susan stood with both hands over her mouth, watching as he felt for the pulse in her unnaturally bent neck and looked into her sightless, staring eyes. Blue eyes. _She was a great beauty in her day._

The man looked panicked and as if he might be sick. Then something sly came into his eyes. She had fallen, and it seemed no one could prove it was anything but an accident. He would have her money and the girl he wanted. She would have nothing. Nothing ever again.

He brushed a strand of bleached hair out of her face and smiled. "Thank you, Susan."

Susan tried to speak, tried to scream, but she could only sink to her knees before the Spirit.

"No," she breathed, burying her face against it. "Please, no. It can't. That's not me. It's not. Edmund, don't let it end that way. It can't. It can't!"

"I am only here to show you what is to come," the Ghost said, though now a tear trickled down one cheek. "There is no more I can do."

"Edmund, hear me! I am not who I was! Why show me this if I am past all hope?"

"There is always hope."

"Take me away from here," she begged, tears blinding her. "Save me from this!"

"I cannot. I am not the One who saves. You must go to Him. Believe in Him. My time is up."

"Edmund! Don't go! Don't leave me! Please!"

In her agony, she caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but she was strong in her entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit stronger yet, repulsed her.

Holding up her hands in a last prayer to have her fate reversed, she saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and cloak. It shrunk, collapsed and dwindled down into a bedpost.

**Coming up: STAVE FIVE: THE END OF IT**


	5. The End of It

**Disclaimer: Susan Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. I believe Dickens' A Christmas Carol is public domain now, but if not, that's not mine either. I'm just stealing freely from it. Any really strange punctuation you notice is likely copied from the original.**

STAVE FIVE: THE END OF IT

Yes! and the bedpost was her own. The bed was her own, the room was her own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before her was her own, to make amends in!

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Susan repeated as she scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of Lucy, Peter and Edmund, all three! shall strive within me! Oh, dear Professor! I will not forget Narnia and Aslan and that we were and are Kings and Queens. I will not forget to be His Queen no matter how grown up I am. Heaven and the Great Lion be praised for this!"

She went to her mirror and looked into it. She had been sobbing violently in her conflict with the Spirit, and her face was wet with tears.

"It is not stiff and strange." She put one trembling hand to her cheek and then to her soft, pink lips. "It is not painted and frightening. It is my face– my own face!– the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!"

She stripped off the fur coat she had been huddling in, stripped off the fashionable gown, the French undergarments, the silk stockings, and stood for a good long while under a hot shower, soaking off every bit of makeup and hair spray and perfume. Then she dressed herself again, and her eager hands did not know what to make of the familiar, simple garments now: turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

"I don't know what to do!" cried Susan, laughing and crying in the same breath. "I'm as light as a Nymph! I'm as happy as a Mermaid, I'm as merry as a Faun, I'm as giddy as a drunken Dwarf. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world!"

She had just managed to sort everything out when the church round the corner rang out the lustiest peals she had ever heard. Clash, clash, hammer; ding, dong, bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window– the window Lucy had come through!– she opened it and put out her head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Susan, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes.

"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day."

"It's Christmas Day," said Susan to herself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can." She cleared her throat. "Hello, young man!"

"Hallo!" returned the boy.

"Do you know the jeweler's in the next street but one, at the corner?" Susan enquired.

"I should hope I did," replied the lad. "My father's the jeweler."

"Has he already gone to the church?"

The boy looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Not yet. He and my mum are just coming now."

Susan beamed at him. "Excellent. I'll be right down. Ask him to please stop just where you are now, and I'll give you a pound."

She scurried down into the street, and as she expected, she found the man and his disgruntled looking wife waiting for her.

"Miss Pevensie." The jeweler bowed respectfully. "Merry Christmas."

Before and during her marriage and in her widowhood and after, she had frequented the man's shop and he had made a tidy profit from those trying to win her favor. He looked faintly startled to see the warmth of her smile.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Eldridge. I know you and your family are on your way to church, and I'm going that way myself, but I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you. I saw the prettiest ruby necklace in your shop, with the earrings and bracelet to match. You know the one. The very sweet one that wouldn't overpower a lady."

"I do indeed, ma'am. Might I bring it over for you?"

"Do you still have that watch?" Susan asked. "The lovely, sleek gold one in your front window."

The jeweler frowned contemplatively. "Yes, I do. Certainly. But that's a man's watch."

"Exactly."

And there was such joy in Susan's laugh that the jeweler couldn't help join in, though he didn't really know why she laughed, and even his disgruntled wife smiled enough to bring a dimple to her cheek.

"Now, if you would," Susan continued, laying a soft hand on his arm. "I should very much like, once the service is done and you've taken a good long time to enjoy your family and your Christmas dinner, for you to send that watch and the necklace and all the rest to this address."

She told him the address of the humble little house where Brett and his wife and baby lived, and he took it down in a little notebook.

"And what shall the card read, ma'am? 'A Merry Christmas from Susan Pevensie'?"

"No, no, no!" she cried, still laughing. "I want it to say exactly this: 'A merry Christmas to you both from one you have shown a glimpse of true love.' And I shall be very cross with you, Mr. Eldridge, if you even hint at who sent it."

The jeweler grinned. "Mum's the word, Miss Pevensie. You have my oath on it."

Again she beamed at him. "Now, if you and your wife don't mind, may I walk along with you to church?"

He made a slight bow. "We'd be pleased, ma'am, but your coat–"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I don't want it. At least not for a bit. This isn't the dull, dreary sort of cold, you know. This is the kind of Christmas cold that makes you dance when you walk."

And that was what she did. She more frolicked with the jeweler's young son than walked with the more sedate couple the short way to the church. And when she got there, she could not stop looking at the stained glass above the altar, the great window Peter had shown her. Lion of Judah. Lamb of God. One in the same. The Great Lion who died for Edmund– and for her and for all the traitors that ever were. The One who loved her and longed for her return.

And she did return. Not that year and not for many years after. For she was grown up now and meant to use those gifts He had given her here in this world. But she knew at last what it meant to be His Queen and his child. She knew the truth and knew what was fleeting and what truly was important.

And it was always said of her that she knew how to keep Christmas well, not only in the Season but all the year round, remembering Lucy's joy and Peter's kindness and Edmund's redemption, and most of all the Lion's love. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!

And so, on this Christmas Day and always, God bless Us, Every One!

**Coming up: More of "Refined by Fire."**


End file.
